


Worth It

by AbschaumNo1



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bahorel's life is a rom com probably, Friends to Lovers, Hook-Up, M/M, also Feuilly is an idiot and certainly not Bahorel's best friend thank you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2014-10-19
Packaged: 2018-02-21 19:13:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2479367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbschaumNo1/pseuds/AbschaumNo1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bahorel meets Grantaire when the man stumbles drunkenly into the cinema he works at. He did not expect it to lead where it does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whiskeyandgrantaire](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=whiskeyandgrantaire).



> Yeah so this was supposed to be a little thing for the Les Mis Trick or Treat Exchange. But then plot happened and suddenly I had this.  
> Written for [whiskeyandgrantaire](http://whiskeyandgrantaire.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. I hope you like it =)

“You can't be here,” Bahorel tells the guy who just stumbled into the cinema. It is the middle of the night, and he is definitely not up to dealing with a guy who appears to be so drunk that it's a wonder that he is still able to be on his feet. “I mean, I know it is raining outside and everything, but I can't allow you in here unless you want to watch a movie.”

The guy looks at him for a moment, before he speaks slowly, “What if I'm here to watch a movie?”

“Do you even know what's on right now?” Bahorel asks, trying very hard not to be impressed with how little he slurs his words.

“No. But I wanna see it anyway,” the guy says, leaning against the counter, grinning at Bahorel.

Bahorel sighs. “I still don't think I can let you in. They're in the middle of the film already.”

“I'll catch up.” The guy shrugs, and Bahorel really should just throw him out, but he can't quite make himself do it.

“It's the horror feature. Do you really think you're up for it?”

He is met with another shrug. “I'll handle it.”

“That's ten fifty then,” Bahorel replies with a sigh.

“Man, you really take it from the living, don't you?” the guy says as he pulls out his wallet and pays for his ticket.

“Well, the dead don't have enough money to spend,” Bahorel replies, one eyebrow pulled up. “Besides, you're in Paris, mate. What else did you expect?” He puts away the money and hands the guy his ticket.

“Yeah, I should've known. Well, thanks for the ticket. I hope you'll have a good night...Bahorel,” the guy says, glancing at Bahorel' name badge and smiling.

Bahorel shakes his head as he watches the guy walk into the cinema with far more control than he should have. He has met his fair share of drunken people in his life, but this one must have been the weirdest of them all.

A week later Bahorel sees the guy again. He is once again working the late shift at the cinema, and the man is once again drunk.

He staggers over to the counter, and leans against it, squinting his eyes at Bahorel. “It's you again,” he says finally.

Bahorel snorts. “I could say the same about you.”

“So which cinematic masterwork are you showing to the eager masses tonight, Bahorel,” he asks with a grin, as he hands over the money for his ticket.

Bahorel rolls his eyes and replies, “Same thing as last week. But you're earlier this time, so maybe you'll catch more of the beginning.”

“Oh just who did I offend to deserve this,” the guy says as he turns around and walks towards the cinema. Just before he reaches the door, he calls back over his shoulder, “I hope you have a good night, Bahorel!”

Bahorel only rolls his eyes at his back.

When the guy comes in the fifth time, Bahorel asks him, “If you hate the movie so much, why are you coming to watch it so often.”

“Maybe I don't hate it. Or maybe I don't come to see the movie,” the guy says as he takes his ticket from Bahorel.

Bahorel snorts. “Okay, keep your secret to yourself then.”

There is an amused twinkle in the guy's eyes, and Bahorel thinks that maybe he's not as drunk as the other times. But before he can say anything about it the other guy is walking towards the cinema again, and all he can shout after him is, “Will you ever tell me your name?”

“Maybe next time,” the guy calls back. “Good night, Bahorel.”

It takes several more times until Bahorel actually finds out the guy's name. It's week ten, the film has changed several times since he stumbled into the cinema for the first time, and Bahorel has his ticket ready for him every time he stumbles in through the door.

This time however, he doesn't get to sell it to him. He's looking out through the glass door, when the drunkard stumbles into sight, and falls to the ground. He is holding his jaw and glaring at someone, Bahorel can't see. Bahorel is already on his way out from behind the counter and towards the door when someone else comes into view, and punches the drunk guy in the face. The stranger is about to punch again when Bahorel grabs his arm from behind and holds him back.

“I don't think you want to do that,” he says, one eyebrow pulled up.

The other guy struggles to get his hand free from the iron-like grip he is held in, but all Bahorel does is look down at him, unimpressed, as he wraps his other arm around him, picks him up, turns around 180 degrees and puts him down again.

“You better go now, or this won't end good for you,” he tells him very calmly, and the guy stares at him with wide eyes. He runs as soon as Bahorel releases him.

The drunkard is still lying on the floor when Bahorel turns around. He bends down and picks him up, slightly surprised at how heavy he is, as he carries him into the building. He gets him all the way into the staff room, and fetches him a bag of ice.

“That looked mean,” the drunkard says after a moment.

“Yeah,” Bahorel answers. “So do those bruises on your face. Wanna share why he was punching you like that?”

“He didn't like my face,” the drunkard says easily. “And thus he decided to punch it.”

“And you didn't punch back?” Bahorel raises an eyebrow.

“What sense would it have made? I am not a fighter, so my meagre play at punching anyone would not have worked out.”

“Bullshit,” Bahorel says. “I've seen you drunk before, and with the control you have over your body you've gotta know some sort of fighting.”

“You assume much,” the other man says drily, but all Bahorel does is raise his eyebrow again, and he sighs. “It seems I have been caught. You are right, I do know how do fight. But it has been long since I have trained these skills, and I am sure to have forgotten them.”

Instead of replying to that Bahorel throws a punch at him that is neither aimed well, nor executed with enough force to do a lot of damage should it connect. Just as he predicted the drunkard blocks him easily.

“I call bullshit again,” Bahorel says.

Another sigh from the drunkard. “Alright, I do still know how to fight. I just didn't want to fight back,” he finally admits.

“And why didn't you want that?” Bahorel asks, leaning forward and bracing his arms on his knees. He's looking intently at the drunkard, and the man actually squirms under his gaze.

“I just didn't think it was worth it,” he says with a sigh.

Bahorel shakes his head. “No man isn't worth the strength it takes to defend himself, even the scum of this poor earth defends themselves. You can't be that bad a person.”

“Then surely you must be the first person to think like that,” the drunkard says.

“I'm sure you have friends, mate. And And I bet they think you're worth something or they wouldn't be your friends,” Bahorel replies.

The smirk on the other man's face is dry, and his words are full of sarcasm when he says, “I dare to exist in the presence of a god, and he does not look kindly upon me. Nor do his friends for a lot of the time. It is because I don't worship their ideals, because I'd rather worship the god of drunkenness than his golden counterpart.”

“I am sure they don't think you worthless, or they would send you away,” Bahorel insists.

The drunkard lets out a dry laugh. “Oh my dearest Apollo has tried just today, but I already know that I find myself unable to stay away from the glory of his presence for too long.”

“Just to be honest with you man, that sounds unhealthy.”

“Ah, but then I am a man who likes his vices.”

Bahorel shakes his head. “I think you might need some new friends.”

“Maybe I do. But I find them hard to come by,” the drunkard says.

Bahorel rubs his temple, he knows that Feuilly will probably beat his ass for what he's going to say now, but he also knows that he at least has to try to help this guy. “Look, a friend and I are going out for drinks tomorrow. Why don't you join us?”

“You don't even know my name.” The drunkard pulls up an eyebrow.

Bahorel shrugs. “You sound like you need some friends. I find you bearable enough, and my friend will probably kick my ass, but he will be fine with it.”

The other man narrows his eyes at him. “You are sure you want me there?”

Bahorel nods. “As sure as I can be.”

The drunkard thinks about that for a moment. “Then where should I come to meet you?” he finally asks.

“Have you heard of the Corinthe?”

“I see you have good taste in alcohol. I have in fact been there before.”

“Good. Then we'll see you there at eight tomorrow.” Bahorel smiles at him, and the other man looks like he is utterly fascinated by him, but then he shakes his head, and returns the smile.

“I shall be there,” he says, and then he gets up. “But I should go now. I am sure you still have work to do, and I should probably go home before I run into more trouble than before.”

“Until tomorrow then,” Bahorel says, leaning back.

“Until tomorrow,” the man replies. When he is about to leave through the door he stops and looks back at Bahorel. “My name is Grantaire,” he says. “But I like to go by R.”

Bahorel was right, Feuilly kicks his ass when he hears that he invited Grantaire. In fact, he does quite literally give him a kick to the ass. And then he falls down onto their couch and doesn't leave any space for Bahorel, despite being far smaller than his friend. Bahorel ignores it, and just shoves Feuilly's legs off the couch so he can sit down. Feuilly groans and sits up properly.

“Only you would invite some guy you barely know to our night out because you thought he might need some new friends,” he finally says.

Bahorel laughs. “It worked with you, didn't it?”

“I was seven and had no friends, you saved me from the bullies from fourth year,” Feuilly replies, raising an eyebrow.

“See? It totally worked.” Bahorel is still grinning, and Feuilly lets his head fall back with a groan.

“I hate you so much. If this guy turns out to be bad news I won't do a thing to help you.”

“I knew you would say that.” Bahorel punches Feuilly good-heartedly, and his best friend just groans again.

The first thing Feuilly does when Grantaire enters the Corinthe that evening is punch Bahorel's arm. “You didn't tell me that it's R you invited. I've seen his work, he's amazing.”

“See, I knew you'd like him,” Bahorel replies with a grin, and then Grantaire has reached them and Bahorel welcomes him with a broad grin. “This is Feuilly. He is my best friend, and has just told me that he has seen your work before,” he introduces his companion. “Feuilly, this is Grantaire, about whom I don't know a lot, but who seems like a great guy.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow at Feuilly. “You have seen my work? I am sorry for wasting your time then.”

“I'm a printer. The company I'm working with printed the posters you designed for that party last year,” Feuilly explains. “I thought it was really great work.”

“That makes at least one of us,” Grantaire says, and takes a sip of his drink.

“Wait,” Bahorel says suddenly. “He's the guy you went on about, isn't he? You were so impressed by his work that you googled him.”

“You make me sound like a creep.”

Bahorel makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. “Only marginally. The point is, I remember you showing me his work. I liked it.” He grins at Grantaire. “That was some amazing stuff you did. Slightly dark maybe, but still amazing.”

Grantaire bows his head, and replies, “It is nothing extraordinary.”

From the look Feuilly gives Grantaire Bahorel knows that his friend needs no more convincing. He leans back and watches them talk for a moment, before he braces his elbows on the table again and joins in the conversation.

It is only the first time the three of them meet up, and over the next few weeks Grantaire seems to spend more and more time in their company. When Bahorel asks him after his other friends one evening at the cinema, he shrugs and says, “I have not concerned myself with them for the past few weeks, but they prove to be unexpectedly stubborn to keep me.” Bahorel doesn't say that he has told him so, but he is sure that Grantaire knows him well enough to interpret the look Bahorel gives him that way.

It is almost two months into their friendship when Feuilly and Bahorel meet one of Grantaire's other friends for the first time. Bahorel is at the bar to get a new round of drinks, when the man sitting next to where he's standing turns to him, and says, “So it is you with whom R has spent his time over the past few weeks.” Bahorel looks at him, and pulls an eyebrow up. The man looks like he has no idea how to dress himself properly, but somehow manages to make it look at least somewhat fashionable. Bahorel can only guess, but he is fairly sure that he hides muscle under the wide shirt he wears. He turns and leans against the bar easily.

“And who would you be?” he asks.

“My name is Jehan, I'm a friend of R's.” He smiles pleasantly, but Bahorel decides to remain cautious. As ready as he accepted Grantaire as his friend, he is not entirely sure what to think of Jehan, yet.

“It is nice to meet you, Jehan,” he says finally.

“It is good to see that he is not on his own. We have been looking for him ever since he stopped coming to our meetings. Joly is terribly worried about him,” Jehan says.

But before Bahorel can reply someone is slinging an arm around his waist and Grantaire says, “I see you have met Jehan.”

Bahorel can tell that Grantaire is acting slightly more drunk than he actually is. For once it has only been a few minutes since he has seen the man, and then he is moving in a way that Bahorel has not seen on him before. It is almost as if he has forgone the complete control he usually has over his body even in drunkenness. He can barely stop himself from frowning at him, and instead puts an arm around his shoulders and grins.

“He has only just introduced himself,” he tells Grantaire. “I haven't even had the chance to tell him my name.”

“Now that is just a terrible situation. How is he supposed to be able to address you?” Grantaire replies with an easy smile. “This, Jehan, is Bahorel. We have met a few months ago. And now he shall have to come back with me again, because we have been waiting for far too long for our drinks.” Grantaire grabs for one of the drinks the barkeeper has put in front of Bahorel, but his friend easily takes all three glasses in his hands and picks them up.

“You my friend are too drunk to carry any of these over to the table,” he tells Grantaire, who rolls his eyes at him, but doesn't try again, and just saunters away with a last wave towards Jehan, while Bahorel nods at the man before he follows his friend.

Bahorel only tells Feuilly about his meeting with Jehan when they are back at home. His friend frowns and says, “I think we should probably talk to Grantaire's friends at some point.”

“Are you sure? He didn't seem to be too big on them the last time he talked about them,” Bahorel replies.

Feuilly raises a challenging eyebrow at him. “We both know how he can get sometimes. I really think we should hear the other side of the story. It probably won't make whatever has happened any better, but I think it would be good to hear what his friends have to say about this.”

“I don't know. It feels like talking behind his back. He trusts us, and I wouldn't want to break that trust.”

“I'll do it. You can ask Grantaire himself about his friends again if you want to, and I'll talk to them if one of them ever turns up again.”

Bahorel sighs. “I just really hope you're not doing anything stupid.”

The next time Grantaire turns up at the cinema during his night shift Bahorel asks him about his friends. They have long forgone any act of selling tickets and pretending to be interested in the movie shown. Instead, Grantaire is leaning against the counter and they spend the time talking.

Grantaire's first reaction to the question is to raise an eyebrow and asking, “Why the sudden interest?”

Bahorel shrugs. “Jehan seemed concerned about you, and according to him so are your other friends. I was just wondering.”

Grantaire sighs and rubs his face and then he tells Bahorel about his friends.

There are six of them, Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jehan, Joly and Bossuet, and they are some sort of student activism group. Enjolras is their leader, and apparently also the guy Grantaire has referred to as Apollo before. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are Enjolras' closest friends according to Grantaire, with Combeferre as the voice of reason as well as well read philosopher, and Courfeyrac being 'like the warm flame in a fireplace in winter' in Grantaire's words. There is admiration in his eyes when he talks of the first one, but also pain and suffering, while he only speaks warmly about the latter two. Jehan, whom Bahorel has met only a few days before is a poet, and according to Grantaire 'in love with love and life, but deeply fascinated with death', which is maybe not exactly what Bahorel expected to hear about him, but certainly doesn't make him any less intriguing. Finally Bossuet and Joly are two friends closer to each other than even Bahorel and Feuilly are. They share everything and then some, and while Grantaire makes it sound like it is hard to define one without the other, he tells Bahorel about Joly's hypochondria and how he studies medicine, and how Bossuet seems to live in a very weird version of Groundhog Day, where every day is a Friday the Thirteenth.

The thing is that Bahorel can see the fondness in Grantaire's eyes when he talks about his friends. He really loves them, but there is also something that keeps him from going back to them. And Bahorel can see how being friends with them might be hard for his friend sometimes, because if there is one thing Bahorel has learned about Grantaire, it is that he takes great care to not believe in anything. Which is probably not something a group of idealistic students will always be able to accept.

“You seem to like them a lot,” Bahorel says when Grantaire is finished, and the other man shrugs.

“They are my friends. But we have never been on the same page regarding out ideals, and I am sure they would rather not have me there.”

Bahorel narrows his eyes at him. “That's bullshit and I know it. I doubt they would let you stay for their meetings if they didn't want you. And Jehan told me they have been looking for you since you stopped turning up. To be quite frank he doesn't sound like someone who makes such a statement lightly. I think your friends are genuinely concerned for you, but something happened that makes you tell yourself that you're not worth it. But you're my friend and I think you're worth it, and I'm sure they think that as well.”

“You haven't heard Enjolras on that evening,” Grantaire says softly after a pause. “He made it very clear that me and my...contributions are unwanted and that I should stop coming at all if I am unwilling to contribute in a more appropriate manner.”

Bahorel swallows at his words and comes out from behind the counter to wrap Grantaire in a hug. “Listen, Enjolras sounds like a right douche, but I don't believe that he speaks for all of your friends, and he isn't worth you cutting ties with all of them,” he tells him.

Grantaire disentangles himself from the hug, and looks up at Bahorel, a cynic smile playing around his lips. “It doesn't matter. I have decided to heed Enjolras' advice and stay away.”

He turns to go, and all Bahorel can do is say, “I hope you realise that despite everything you might think about me trying to reconcile you with your friends, Feuilly and I value your friendship a lot. We're glad to call you our friend.”

Grantaire turns back to him to give him a small smile and replies, “Thank you for that. Good night, Bahorel.”

A couple of days later Feuilly comes home from work and says, “One of Grantaire's friends came to visit me after work today.”

Bahorel, who is lying on the couch and watching TV looks up at him and asks, “Which one?”

“Courfeyrac,” Feuilly replies as he grabs a handful of crisps from the bag Bahorel has opened and sits down on the coffee table. “Said something about how Jehan had seen my jacket when he met us at the Corinthe, and that he knows one of my colleagues, which is apparently how he found me.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted to talk about Grantaire actually; asked me how he was, and if he had said anything about coming back. He seemed genuinely sad when I told him what R told you the other day. But he also told me why R left in the first place. According to Courfeyrac R spends a lot of his time at their meetings commenting on Enjolras' arguments, which is apparently actually helpful, because he's incredibly good at finding loopholes and using them, but also riles up Enjolras.”

“Let me guess, Enjolras got angry and was an asshole about it?” Bahorel asks, one eyebrow raised.

Feuilly nods. “Courfeyrac said he wouldn't want to repeat what Enjolras said, but it was way too harsh, and apparently they all got pretty angry with him until he understood that he had done something wrong. And well, they tried getting a hold of R ever since, but he has avoided most of his usual places and they didn't think to check the Corinthe until now simply because it took Joly and Bossuet so long to remember that the three of them used to go there for lunch when they still did that kind of thing.”

“Okay so that explains why he doesn't want to go back.”

“Yes. Courfeyrac said to tell R that they miss him if we think he wants to hear it, and that he can understand if he doesn't want to be around anymore. And he asked me to call if anything happens to him. He even gave me this flyer for their activist group just in case we were interested in coming to meet them some time.”

“Anything good?” Bahorel ask, as he steals his crisps back from Feuilly, who simply shrugs.

“It sounds pretty close to Occupy, so nothing too bad. Some of the points make it pretty obvious that they never had to deal with the kind of living conditions they are against though.”

“Which is perfectly excusable for a bunch of students,” Bahorel replies. After a pause he asks, “So what are we going to do?”

“I have no idea. I guess we should tell R what Courfeyrac said to tell him. But getting to know them? I think that should maybe wait until R wants to deal with them again, if he wants to.”

“I think you're right,” Bahorel says. “Right now we're first and foremost R's friends. Better to keep it that way.”

Feuilly nods. “Now I hope you took care of dinner, or you'll have to pay for whatever I end up ordering,” he says standing up, and raising an eyebrow at Bahorel.

“It's in the oven, idiot,” Bahorel replies with a roll of his eyes, and while Feuilly fetches his food from the kitchen, he sits up to make space for him on the couch, and orders the stuff on their coffee table enough to make space for a plate.

When they pass on Courfeyrac's message to Grantaire he sighs and for a long moment he says nothing. “What else did he say?” he asks finally.

Feuilly and Bahorel share a look, and Feuilly replies, “He said there was an argument, and he wouldn't tell me exactly what Enjolras said, but he said it was far too harsh, and that it was enough for them to give Enjolras the silent treatment until he understood what he did.”

Grantaire scoffs, unbelieving. “You want to tell me they made Enjolras understand that he has done something wrong?”

“That's what Courfeyrac told me,” Feuilly says with a shrug. “He also said that he'd understand if you wouldn't want to be around them anymore, and that they'll back off now that they know you're not alone.”

Grantaire stares into his beer for a long moment, before he straightens up and says, “I think I've got to make a phone call.”He pulls his phone out from his pocket and dials the number without even looking at it. “Courfeyrac,” he addresses the person on the other end when they pick up. “Did you really give Enjolras the silent treatment?” He listens to Courfeyrac's reply, his eyes narrowed, and then finally says, “I'll come next week to give him a chance to apologise, but it's his last chance and I don't want you to tell him that I'm coming.” There is another pause and then he says, “I'll ask. I'll see you next week Courf.”

“So you're trying the reconciliation thing,” Bahorel says when Grantaire has hung up and put away his phone.

Grantaire nods. “Yes. But only if Enjolras is truly sorry.”

“Good,” Bahorel replies, and takes a sip from his drink. “Want some backup when you go, just in case?”

“I'd say I can do without, but Courfeyrac asked me to bring you guys if you want to come,” Grantaire says with a laugh.”

Feuilly and Bahorel don't even have to look at each other to know what they are doing about this, and Feuilly just asks, “When is it?”

“Thursday evening, at seven in the Musain,” Grantaire says.

Bahorel looks at Feuilly and says, “That should work for us if we're not out too long, because this one's shift starts early on Fridays.”

“It's fine,” Feuilly says with a dismissive gesture of his hand. “I can handle myself.”

“I'll pick you guys up at half past six then,” Grantaire replies with an amused smile, to which they nod.

The next evening finds Feuilly opening the door of their flat to Grantaire. “Bahorel is still in the bathroom,” he explains. “Because as usual he has terrible time management and takes too long to get ready.”

“I heard that, and it's not my fault that this didn't work out the way I wanted it to,” Bahorel calls from the bath room, and Grantaire laughs.

“It's fine,” he replies. “I'm early anyway.” Feuilly gives him an apologetic smile and goes to fetch him a glass of water from the kitchen, while Grantaire sits down on their couch.

When Bahorel emerges from the bathroom he is wearing his favourite red t-shirt. He has put his brown hair back into a small bun at the back of his head, rather than going for putting it up in the mohawk he usually wears when going out. His piercings and tattoos are on full display, and Grantaire raises an eyebrow at him.

“That's bound to make a first impression,” he says.

Bahorel gives him a toothy grin. “It's not exactly what I was going for, but it's enough.”

And Feuilly stage whispers to Grantaire, “I could have done it, but he didn't want my help.” In reply Bahorel chucks a pair of socks at him from somewhere that Feuilly just throws back with a grin on his face.

The Musain turns out to be a café close to the university, the front room of which is filled with students winding down from a day of studies, but Grantaire leads them through the crowd and to a slightly quieter back room.

He stops before he opens the door, and Feuilly squeezes his shoulder and says, “Ready?”

Grantaire gives him a smile, takes a deep breath and then he opens the door.

The room they enter is dimly lit, and someone has pushed some tables together in a square in the centre of the room. Grantaire's friends are already there, some sitting, others standing together in groups. The first one to see them is a curly-haired guy, who's talking with a guy with glasses, and the first thing he does is launch himself at Grantaire with a giant grin and something resembling a war cry. He develops enough force to let Grantaire make a step back when their bodies connect, and Bahorel reaches out to steady his friend out of reflex more than anything. The guy is grinning when he releases Grantaire from the hug.

“It's god to have you back, R,” he says. “It was so boring without you.”

Grantaire snorts. “Yeah, Courf. Are you really the same guy who burned a pamphlet because he thought it was shit?”

“It's just not the same without you,” Courfeyrac replies, pouting. Then he turns to Bahorel and says, “You must be Bahorel, it's nice to meet you.” He tops it with a winning smile, and damn it, against every intention to be sceptic Bahorel already finds himself liking the guy. Courfeyrac welcomes Feuilly as well and then he turns to the room to introduce them to the others.

Grantaire takes the chance to pat Bahorel's back and whispers to him, “Don't worry, he tends to have that effect on people. You just have to like him.”

Once they can put a name to every face in the room, and Jehan has got drinks for them, the three friends sit down furthest away from where Combeferre, as whom Bahorel now knows the man with the glasses Courfeyrac was talking to earlier, is in a conversation with Enjolras, who still seems to be coming to terms with the fact that he should be about to apologise to Grantaire. Across from them sit Joly and Bossuet, and next to Bahorel, who is closest to Combeferre and Enjolras, is Jehan.

Joly sees the look Bahorel gives Enjolras, and leans forward to tell him, “He'll do it. He doesn't look like it, but he is afraid of what might happen if he doesn't.”

Bahorel's lips are about to split into a toothy grin when Feuilly slaps a hand on his mouth, and tells him, “No, you're not saying that. You promised to behave and not scare anyone away.”

Bahorel turns to pout at him. “I wasn't about to say anything. Why would you even think something like that?” he says.

“Because I know you, my friend, and we both know what was going through your mind,” Feuilly replies at him one eyebrow raised, and Bahorel rolls his eyes at him and turns back towards the others.

Joly and Bossuet are watching them fascinated, and finally Bossuet asks, “You two have known each other for a long time, haven't you?”

Bahorel grins at him. “16 years next month. I met this idiot in our first year at the primaire,” he explains.

“I maintain that he is the idiot, because he decided to take on a bunch of fourth years for this scrawny kid he didn't know,” Feuilly adds.

“Which is exactly why he is the idiot. Those assholes would have eaten him alive,” Bahorel says with a roll of his eyes that earns him a punch against the arm.

Next to them Grantaire grins widely. “I think the only idiots are the ones who ever looked at Bahorel and thought he wouldn't kick their ass.”

“Damn right you are,” Bahorel agrees and holds up his fist so Grantaire can bump it.

“Just the way you kicked Law School's ass?” Feuilly asks with a smirk.

Bahorel narrows his eyes at him. “A: You know that wasn't the reason why I left. B: We're not talking about that. I don't even know why I ever bothered with that place.”

“You went to Law School?” Bossuet asks, and Bahorel nods.

“Only one year though. It was a waste of my time,” he replies, a disgusted expression on his face.

“I had to leave after a year as well,” Bossuet admits. “It was just my luck.”

“That's not true, Bossuet,” Jehan protests from his place on Bahorel's right side. “You see, Bossuet here actually helped a guy he didn't even know at the time out, because this lecturer of theirs was checking attendance and this unfortunate person would have lost their place at university if it hadn't been for Bossuet pretending to be him. And then later Bossuet and Courfeyrac met him on the street and found out that he didn't have a place to stay and Courfeyrac was able to help him with that.”

“Ah, poor Marius. Has he gotten any less dreamy than when I saw him for the last time?” Grantaire asks, grinning.

Jehan shakes his head. “He has probably gotten worse if you want to call it that. Because dear Marius is in love now.”

“Ah, so he is a case for a poet now.”

“As poetic and tragic as Marius' love life has turned out to be, I think I shall continue to write about the state of decay of our society and the general state of the country,” Jehan replies drily. “I am far better suited to that.”

Grantaire laughs and salutes Jehan with his glass. “A toast to that, Jehan.”

It is then that Enjolras finally approaches Grantaire, who leans back in his chair and watches the other man pull a chair closer and sit down. Bahorel notes that he keeps the back of the chair between himself and Grantaire, but seeing how everyone around the table has fallen silent and is watching the two of them in anticipation he doesn't comment on it.

“R,” Enjolras says. “I have realised that what I said when we saw each other the last time was...arseholish of me. I should have thought before speaking, because then I would have realised that I was wrong. You are far from useless, and you are definitely not a waste of space. I should not even have thought of that. In fact, you actually help me, because you show me faults in my arguments that I oversee, and I am very thankful for that. You are just as valuable as every other member of the group. So even though I know that there is no excuse for what I have said I want to ask your forgiveness for one last time. I am truly sorry, R, and I hope you can forgive me.”

For a moment Grantaire says nothing, but then he pulls up an eyebrow and says, “You do realise that saying that there is no excuse and then asking for forgiveness is a bit of a paradox, don't you?”

Enjolras smirks. “I do. But it wouldn't be right if I didn't give you one thing to exploit, would it?”

Grantaire scoffs. “You are incorrigible, Enjolras.” He turns serious, and studies Enjolras' face for a second before he continues, “But I do believe you mean it. I accept your apology.”

Enjolras smiles at him, and gets up. “It's good to have you back, R, I mean it.”

“Good,” Grantaire says. “Then you can get on with this meeting.”

Enjolras nods and walks back to his place between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and begins the meeting. There is nothing Bahorel outright objects to among the things they talk about, in fact he finds himself agreeing to the political views of the group. At least until Enjolras begins talking about state benefits.

“That can only come from someone who has never had to live off benefits in their life,” Bahorel says when the man brings up a particularly stupid argument.

Enjolras blinks at him. “Excuse me?”

Bahorel rolls his eyes. “You heard what I said. If you'd ever had to live off benefits you would know that the problem cannot be that easily summarised. For once not only lazy people are long-term unemployed, there are also those who simply can't find a job, as shocking as that may be to you. And then there are civil servants, who simply don't do their jobs, or do their jobs wrong, or have so much work to do that they just can't do their jobs right, because if they do they will never get finished. And if civil servants would and could do their jobs properly some of the problems would disappear.”

“Yes, but clearly the laws are faulty as well. You can't deny that the law in its current form is problematic.”

“I never said it wasn't. But the thing is, constitutional law is above everything, and the constitution says that the state has to provide for those of its citizens that can't provide adequately for themselves. If these guys knew their jobs and the goddamn constitution a lot of things would be easier.”

“And you can obviously speak better about these issues because you have received benefits yourself...”

Enjolras' tone is challenging, and Bahorel is very bad at backing down from challenges, but before he can rise to this particular one, Feuilly has spoken up. “He hasn't, he was a law student, but I have, and I have to say that Bahorel is right.”

There is silence around the table, and Feuilly rolls his eyes. “Don't act so shocked, not everyone can be privileged enough to go to university. Some of us aren't that lucky, and I got the bad end of the stick.”

Enjolras starts looking slightly unhealthy, and Combeferre remarks, “I think you have just temporarily broken Enjolras.”

“Does he still breathe?” Jehan asks, clearly fascinated by the effect Feuilly's statement has on his friend.

“If he doesn't he'll start again soon. It's a reflex of the human body,” Joly replies, completely unconcerned. “We should only start to worry if he hyperventilates.”

“I think we should keep Bahorel and Feuilly,” Courfeyrac says. “We can't go wrong with people who can get Enjolras to that state. I've last seen him like this when his professor at university said something about how good his essay was.”

“Courf...” Combeferre starts to say, but he is cut off by Grantaire.

“That sounds a lot like slavery Courf. I don't think that is legal anymore,” he says.

“It might be legal somewhere!” Courfeyrac protests. Bahorel is sure that he can see Enjolras' eyebrow twitching at this point, and he definitely would say something about how he values his freedom, but this is getting interesting, and when he looks over to Grantaire he just knows that the man has noticed the eyebrow as well.

With an amused glint in his eye Grantaire pretends to think about what Courfeyrac said, before he finally replies, “I think you can still enter a state of semi-slavery in India, when you have too many debts, but I don't think that will help us here, unless we manage to convince them to borrow a lot of money from us. Maybe there are some undiscovered tribes that still have slavery.”

“That's it. We'll have to move to a desolate island and found our own country.”

“As long as the climate is agreeable...” Joly says with a shrug. “I would hate to live in a climate that affects my health.”

“You, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says finally in a very low voice. “Are not going to found a country that allows slavery.”

“But why Enjolras?” Courfeyrac asks with a pout. “How are we supposed to keep Bahorel and Feuilly then?”

“Because, as you know perfectly well, slavery is bad, and we don't do that,” Enjolras says, with a patient tone that obviously costs him a lot of effort. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath before he says, “Could we get back on topic now?”

“If you insist,” Grantaire replies with a grin, and Enjolras gives him a nod and says, “Thank you.”

He picks up where they left off and son enough the meeting is wrapped up, and Courfeyrac grabs Jehan to get drinks for everyone. Enjolras is talking to Feuilly, and Bahorel finds himself with Grantaire.

“So what do you think?” his friend asks him with a smile.

Bahorel grins at him in return and replies, “They are alright. I guess I could get used to them.”

Grantaire laughs, but whatever he is about to say is cut short by the return of Courfeyrac and Jehan, and soon enough Bahorel finds himself scrutinised by questions from everyone.

One meeting they attend turns into several, and Bahorel doesn't even question the random texts he gets from their new friends just two days after the first meeting, even though he is very sure that he did not give his phone number to anyone, yet. On top of the meetings come nights out with the others, and movie nights, and a couple of weeks after they got to know them Bahorel just doesn't think about it anymore. Soon enough it is time for Halloween, and the party Courfeyrac insists they come along to.

Bahorel has more or less teamed up with Grantaire, costume-wise, mostly because Feuilly has made a big secret out of his costume and wouldn't tell him what it was, even though Bahorel knew what it was anyway. And so he turns up at the party, dressed like the scary biker dude he most certainly isn't in real life, with Feuilly dressed as Miles Morales by his side. He can see Grantaire standing with Bossuet at the other side of the room, but before he can make his way over to him he is held up by Courfeyrac, who's wearing a ridiculous moustache and dressed like an English gentleman of times long gone.

“You make an amazing biker dude, Bahorel,” he says.

Bahorel raises an eyebrow. “Not exactly right, M. Poirot. I'm not a biker dude.”

Courfeyrac narrows his eyes at him. “Not a biker dude? Well well...then I shall have to conduct an investigation to find out who you truly are.”

“I bet you a drink that you won't find out on our own,” Bahorel says with a grin, and Courfeyrac narrows his eyes even further.

“A drink you say. I think I can work with that. It's a deal.” He pauses to think for a moment, and then he asks, “Book, film, TV show or game?”

“Book,” Bahorel replies.

“Hmmm.... Are you a vampire?”

Bahorel's eyebrow wanders as far up as possible. “No, I am not a vampire.”

“Are you a biker?”

“Let's say I do have a bike. But I'm not primarily a biker. Didn't we talk about this already?”

“Just wanted to make sure.” Courfeyrac grins at him.

But before he can ask his next question Grantaire appears next to Bahorel and says, “He's Ares you idiot.”

“Ares?” Courfeyrac asks, but then he looks from Bahorel to Grantaire and realisation dawns in his eyes. “Oh! You two are doing Percy Jackson. That's awesome!” He grins. “And thanks to Grantaire I don't owe you a drink Bahorel.”

“Yes, you do,” Bahorel replies. “The bet was that you wouldn't find out on your own. And you didn't, because Grantaire told you.”

“Damn you!” Courfeyrac curses. “I guess I do owe you a drink.”

“Yes you do,” Bahorel says grinning. “So how about you get me one and I consider the debt paid?”

“Yes, sir!” Courfeyrac salutes him and disappears towards the kitchen.

Bahorel turns to Grantaire. “Congratulations on the costume,” he says.

Grantaire laughs. “I could say the same to you. You certainly look the part.”

“So what is the plan for today?” Bahorel wants to know.

“Well, I am planning to not do the whole abstinence thing, so I hope to get spectacularly drunk tonight.”

“That does sound like a plan.” Bahorel has barely finished his sentence when Courfeyrac comes back, and presses a drink into his hand.

“Did I hear someone talk about getting drunk?” he asks with a grin on his face. “Because I think that is a great idea. We have lots of alcohol, make use of it.”

Which is exactly what Bahorel and Grantaire end up doing. They drink and they celebrate and when he wakes up the next morning Bahorel only dimly remembers most of his evening. It is also not helping that he is not in his own bed, or wearing clothes for that matter. It takes him a moment to shake off sleep and orientate himself, but then he realises where he is and....shit.

Because where he is, is in Grantaire's bed, naked, and Grantaire is lying next to him, in a similar state of nudeness. Bahorel has a minor freak out that turns into a slightly less minor one when Grantaire starts moving. His friend turns around, and mumbles, “Stop freaking out and let me sleep” as he throws one arm around Bahorel's torso and actually snuggles into his chest. Well, Bahorel doesn't stop freaking out, but he decides to accept his fate and wraps his arm around Grantaire and goes back to sleep.

When he returns home a few hours later he is still freaking out about the whole thing. Feuilly is sitting on the couch, a bowl of cereal in his lap, and grins widely when Bahorel comes in.

“Looks like you got lucky last night,” he says.

Bahorel groans, and Feuilly luckily lifts the bowl from his lap, because his best friend flops down on the couch and lets his head fall into his lap. “I slept with Grantaire last night,” he says and rubs a hand over his face. He peeks up at Feuilly to see his reaction, but all the other man does is raise an eyebrow.

“Good for you,” Feuilly says and continues to eat his cereal.

“No, you don't understand. I slept with Grantaire,” Bahorel repeats.

Feuilly shrugs. “So what? I think it's kind of late to have a crisis about your sexuality. Besides, you already did that years ago.”

“I'm not having a crisis about my sexuality. I am completely comfortable with my sexuality. The point is that I slept with Grantaire.”

“Then I really don't see the problem?” Bahorel tries to steal his cereal for that but Feuilly evades him easily.

“I'm his friend. I'm not supposed to sleep with him.”

Feuilly shrugs again. “So you did. You slept with me that one time, and it didn't change anything.”

“Yeah, but I already knew you for ages back then. This is Grantaire, I've known him for barely half a year.” Bahorel hides his face behind his hands.

Feuilly sighs, puts his bowl down on the table and places one hand on Bahorel's chest. “Listen mate, you are both adults, and you were both drunk. Shit happens when you're drunk. Besides, did he treat you any different this morning?”

Bahorel shakes his head and Feuilly is about to continue when his best friend speaks. “He snuggled up to me, and then we fell asleep again, and later he made me breakfast and it was all....normal. It was kind of nice actually.” The last sentence is mumbled, and Feuilly is lucky that Bahorel is still hiding behind his hands, because he is grinning the kind of grin Bahorel would probably kill him for if he could see it.

Feuilly does his best to get serious again before he continues. “See? Nothing bad happening. Everything is fine.”

“Ugh. It's really not,” Bahorel says, but he finally uncovers his face and sits up. “Thanks for the talk.”

“Any time, mate. Just let me eat my breakfast now, because we didn't all get lucky last night, and had our breakfast made by the guy we hooked up with,” Feuilly replies as he picks up his bowl again.

Bahorel only rolls his eyes at him and says, “Fuck off.”

The thing is that Bahorel just can't stop thinking about it. And it's not in the kind of awkward “We're friends but we slept with each other and I have no idea where we stand now”-way. No, ever since more and more details of his night with Grantaire have come back to him Bahorel just can't stop thinking about them. He finds himself thinking back to the curve of Grantaire's spine, or the way he is not visibly toned, but has a bit of a wine belly that hides his muscles. These are all things Bahorel knew before, he has seen Grantaire change every time they went to the gym together, he already knew what the man looked like in the nude. But in quiet moments at the cinema, when he can do nothing but think and wait, he keeps remembering the feeling of Grantaire's skin under his fingers. And apart from the part where this starts to feel like the plot of a stupid rom-com, he is just generally fucked.

And then it happens again. Bahorel doesn't even know how they get to the topic, but he and Grantaire are in the changing room at the gym and they actually talk about their hook up, and before he can stop himself Bahorel tells him outright, “I liked it.”

Grantaire raises one eyebrow, and says, “You did?”

“Yes, I did,” Bahorel replies. He is about ninety percent sure that he is visibly blushing, and for once he wishes his ancestors had come from some place further south than Algeria, but it is the truth and he isn't in the habit of lying to his closest friends.

“Good. Because I liked it, too.” There is a smirk on Grantaire's face, and Bahorel is sure that his friend knows exactly what is going through his head right now. His suspicions are confirmed when Grantaire steps closer, smiling, and says, “What if I said that I'd be up for it again?”

“Would you?” Bahorel asks, raising one eyebrow.

Grantaire nods. “I would.”

“Good. Because I would, too.” There is a smirk on Bahorel's face now, and Grantaire laughs.

“Maybe we can find an arrangement for a free evening soon?” Grantaire asks, still standing close, and his hands lying loosely where Bahorel's jeans hang on his hips.

“What if I said that I am free tonight?” Bahorel asks, softly because he doesn't dare to speak too loudly and break the atmosphere.

Grantaire smiles like the proverbial cat that got the cream and replies, “Then I would tell you that you should come over to my flat.”

“Then I am free tonight.”

“Then you should come over to my flat.”

“I will,” Bahorel says with a grin, and Grantaire laughs.

Grantaire steps back from Bahorel, who would feel disappointed about the loss of contact if he didn't know that what was about to come would be so much better. “Then how about we get dressed and be on our way?”

“That sounds like a good idea.”

Bahorel feels almost jittery on his way to Grantaire's flat, because this time he is sober, and Grantaire has told him he liked it the last time, and hell, he is about to sleep with Grantaire again. If he had the time he would probably have another minor breakdown about this, but as things stand he is only aware of Grantaire standing close to him on the metro, and the promise of the things to come when they reach his friend's flat.

As soon as the door closes behind them and they have both flung their bags in the general direction of the closest free corner Bahorel has hoisted up Grantaire and pressed him with his back against the next wall to kiss him. It is open-mouthed and messy, and everything Bahorel has wanted for days. Grantaire's legs are wrapped around his body, and his arms are hanging onto his neck, and they breathe heavily once their lips part. And before Bahorel can even catch his breath properly Grantaire is already kissing him again. Bahorel needs one of his arms to carry Grantaire's weight, but the other is free, and he uses that freedom to slide his hand below Grantaire's pullover to explore his torso.

“We....should probably...take this to the bedroom,” Grantaire pants when they part again to breathe, and instead of wasting his breath on replying to that Bahorel makes sure that Grantaire is firmly holding on and carries him over to the bedroom. His friend laughs breathlessly, and kisses him passionately when he is pressed against the inside of the closed door.

And then Grantaire takes one of his arms away from Bahorel's neck and tugs at his shirt, and Bahorel decides that maybe it is better if he just stops thinking now.

Feuilly is once again sitting on the couch when Bahorel returns home the next morning. He grins at him, and says, “So you did it again.”

“Yes, we did it again,” Bahorel replies with a roll of his eyes. “And it was pretty amazing to be honest.”

“No alcohol involved this time, I guess.” There is an amused smile on Feuilly's face that just prompts another eye-roll from Bahorel.

“No, there was no alcohol involved this time. We are perfectly capable of sleeping with each other when we're sober.”

“Good for you then. So what does that make you two now?”

“Hell if I know,” Bahorel replies, and rubs a hand over his face. “I guess you could call it friends with benefits or something.”

“Man you're really living one of these stupid films now, aren't you?” Feuilly shakes his head.

“I kind of wish it was just a movie. At least you know how they end. I have no bloody idea where this is leading.” Bahorel sighs heavily, and Feuilly gets up and pats his shoulder.

“You'll figure it out,” he says.

All Bahorel can reply to that is, “I really hope so.”

A few weeks later, Bahorel and Grantaire are lying in bed the morning after their latest night together, when Bahorel asks, “What are we?”

He is lying on his side, head propped up on his right hand, facing Grantaire, who is himself lying on his left looking slightly up at Bahorel. Bahorel's left is lying on Grantaire's waist, drawing small circles on the skin there.

Grantaire looks at him; he seems content, maybe also due to the comfortable atmosphere between them. “What do you want us to be?” he asks, and for a moment Bahorel closes his eyes.

“I don't know,” he admits finally. “I like you, and I like having sex with you, and I guess we could build something from that because it seems like a foundation if we want it to be, but I don't know if I want to risk trying that.”

Grantaire picks Bahorel's hand up from his waist, and brings it up to his lips to kiss his knuckles. “I know what you mean. I like you a lot, but I am afraid of finding out if it is enough to go somewhere with...us.”

Bahorel sighs, and leans forward until his forehead touches Grantaire's and he almost falls over. “Maybe we should think about it for a bit longer?”

Grantaire tilts his head a bit and kisses the corner of Bahorel's mouth. “Maybe we should.”

Feuilly finds Bahorel on their couch, staring at nothing when he comes home that evening. He sits down next to him, and asks, “What's the matter?”

“I talked to R this morning. About what we are,” Bahorel says slowly, still looking into the distance.

“And was it good news or bad news?” Feuilly wants to know.

Bahorel finally turns towards him, and studies his face for a moment. “A bit of both actually,” he says finally. “We like each other, but we're both not sure if it's enough to make something more out of what we have right now.”

Feuilly nods slowly. “I can see how that might be a problem.”

“Yes,” Bahorel agrees, before he rubs his chin with his hand. “I just wish I knew what to do about this.”

“I wish I could help you with that,” Feuilly says earnestly. “But I think you will have to figure this one out on your own.”

“Yes.” Bahorel gets up and says, “I'll just go make dinner,” as he starts towards the kitchen. Before he enters it he turns to Feuilly and smiles at him. “Thanks for always being there to talk.”

“You would do the same for me,” Feuilly replies, and with a nod Bahorel turns around again.

As much as he wants to find an answer to the problem he and Grantaire face, Bahorel is not sure he can do it any time soon. He is sure that Grantaire feels the same, but he doesn't seem to be able to do it either. They see each other, and they go through their usual routines; they train at the gym, they go out for drinks, they see each other at meetings, Grantaire comes round the cinema during Bahorel's shifts. They still sleep with each other, and it is still amazing, but when they lie together in the mornings and look at each other the atmosphere between them is different. The knowledge of the decision they still have to make is hanging in the air, and when Bahorel's hand is lying on Grantaire's waist now he feels like something has shifted between them. And it makes him just that much more afraid to take the step he knows he wants to take.

In the end someone else helps him make the decision. The group is out together, and it is one of the few times they go out clubbing. Bahorel does not usually frequent clubs, he prefers the atmosphere of a decent bar or a pub to ear-deafening music and stomping beats, and would rather sit around a table with his friends than dance the night away in a mass of sweating bodies. But it is Courfeyrac's birthday and he has decided that he wants to go to a club.

Bahorel is standing by the bar with Combeferre, who has extracted himself from the crowd as soon as he could when someone stumbles into him. He catches the woman easily, and when he looks at her face he raises his eyebrows in surprise. She is grinning widely, like she has always done, and gives him a hug before she shouts over the music, “What happened to you, I thought you didn't like clubbing?”

He gives her a slightly strained smile, and replies, “It's a friend's birthday.”

“Happy Birthday to him then. You still have my number? We should catch up sometime!” And then she leans up on her toes to give him a hug and disappears back into the crowd with a laugh.

Bahorel looks after her in deep thought, before he shakes his head and turns back to Combeferre, who has an eyebrow raised in question. Bahorel shrugs at him and when he looks out at the crowd again he catches Feuilly's eye. He shakes his head in reply to the unspoken question in his best friend's eyes, and Feuilly shrugs and goes back to dancing with Jehan.

The next person whose eyes find his is Grantaire, whose expression Bahorel can't quite pin down. But that short instant when their eyes meet is enough for him. He downs his drink, eyes never leaving Grantaire's and stalks over to him. Bahorel takes him by the shoulders and pulls him close.

And then he leans down and shouts, “Let's risk it.”

Grantaire grins at him, and shouts back, “You have terrible timing.”

“I know,” Bahorel shouts and there is no way anyone can get the grin off his face tonight, because he is finally doing this, and there is not a force in the world that can spoil his mood.

  


On the next morning when they lie in bed together, and Bahorel is tracing circles on Grantaire's waist again, Grantaire asks, “Who was the girl? You seemed to know her.”

“My ex-girlfriend,” Bahorel replies. “We broke up two years ago.” And then with a shrug, “We used to have a lot of fun together, but in the end it wasn't enough.”

“Well, good for me, I guess,” Grantaire replies with a smirk.

Bahorel laughs and then he leans forward and kisses Grantaire, their lips moving slowly against each other, Bahorel's hand on Grantaire's neck, his thumb on Grantaire's cheekbone, the rest of his fingers threaded through Grantaire's hair, and he is fairly sure that his hair must tickle Grantaire with how it's falling down in his face, but his boyfriend doesn't complain. Grantaire's hand is lying on his hip and pulls him closer.

“I hope you have a good morning, Bahorel,” Grantaire whispers when they have to break the kiss.

Bahorel smiles and replies, “The best.” before he kisses Grantaire again, because he just knows that this is how he wants to spend the rest of his life.


End file.
